What say you?—The man who thinks there are no gods is impious? But is not he who thinks them to be cruel and malignant, chargeable with an opinion that is much more impious? For my own part, I would rather that men should say, ‘There is no such person as Plutarch,’ than that they should affirm that Plutarch is a man capricious, instable, prone to wrath, revengeful of accidental affronts, pettish; one who, if you have neglected to invite him with others to a feast, or if, being otherwise engaged, you have failed to salute him at your gate, will devour you, or seize and torture your son; or will send a beast, which he keeps for the purpose, to ravage your fields.
Plutarch speaks of four states of mind, as known and existing in his times—namely, 1. The wise piety, which he recommends, and which forms the medium between superstition and atheism.—2. The joyous or festive worship of the gods, in which he sees nothing to reprehend.—3. A bold rejection of all religion, which he thinks an error, though an innocent error:—and 4. Superstition, which is not merely an error, but a practical evil of the worst kind. Of the first he says almost nothing; nor does he offer a single hint explanatory of the mode in which the gods and goddesses of the Greek mythology might be made the objects of a devout and reasonable piety:—and yet piety without a god, must be an unmeaning term. Plutarch’s piety is a vague sentiment, which he feels to be proper to human nature, and highly beneficial; but which was absolutely destitute of solid ground, or certainty; for no invisible being or beings were known to him whom he could both love and fear. Even if the philosopher, by a course of doubtful reasonings, might work out for himself an idea of the Deity, such as might keep alive the sentiment of piety, no such abstruse notion could be brought within the apprehension of the vulgar. What is there then left to the vulgar?—not atheism—for that is an error:—not superstition; for that is a tormenting mischief:—nothing remains but the festive worship of the gods; and this, with all its impurities, and all its follies, was the only portion that could be assigned to the millions of mankind:—Plutarch knew of no alternative on which to found the religious sentiments of men. Yet on another occasion he expresses his opinion strongly as to the necessity of religion for the support of the social system.—It seems to me that it were easier to build a city without a foundation, than to construct or to preserve a polity, from which all belief of the gods should be removed. Yet how great soever were the evils of atheism, he deemed those arising from superstition to be greater. According to his testimony, when the only theology known to the Greeks took possession of timid minds, it rendered life intolerably burdensome.—Of all kinds of fear, none produces such incurable despondency and perplexity as superstition. He who never goes on board a ship, does not fear the sea; nor he the combat, who is not a soldier; nor he the robbers, who stays at home; nor does the poor man fear informers, nor he who is low, the eye of envy; nor he who inhabits Gaul, earthquakes; nor the Ethiopian, the thunderbolt. But the man who dreads the gods, dreads all things;—the earth, the sea, the air, the heavens, darkness, light, noise, silence, dreams. The slave in slumber forgets his master, the captive his chain, the wounded and the diseased their anguish:—kind sleep, friend of the sufferer, how sweet are thy visits! But superstition admits not even this solace; it accepts no truce, it gives no breathing time to the mind, nor permits the spirits to rally or to dispel its harsh and grievous surmises. But like the very region of the wicked, so the dreams of the superstitious man abound with terrific apparitions, and fatal portents: and this passion, always inflicting punishments upon the distracted spirit, scares the man from sleep by visions. And he—self-tortured, believes himself obliged to comply with fearful and monstrous behests. Such a man, when he awakes, instead of contemning his dreams, or smiling with pleasure in finding that what had disturbed him has no reality, still flies before an innoxious shadow, while at the same time he is substantially deluded by falling into the hands of conjurers and impostors, who strip him of his money, and impose upon him various penances.
The tortures inflicted upon timid spirits by the Grecian polytheism are depicted with not less force by the observant Theophrastus.—Superstition is a desponding dread of divinities (dæmons). The superstitious man, having washed his hands in the sacred font, and being well sprinkled with holy water from the temple, takes a leaf of laurel in his mouth, and walks about with it all the day. If a weasel cross his path, he will not proceed until some one has gone before him, or until he has thrown three stones across the way. If he sees a serpent in the house, he builds a chapel on the spot. When he passes the consecrated stones, placed where three ways meet, he is careful to pour oil from his cruet upon them: then falling upon his knees, he worships, and retires. A mouse, perchance, has gnawed a hole in a flour-sack: away he goes to the seer, to know what it behoves him to do; and if he is simply answered, ‘Send it to the cobbler to be patched,’ he views the business in a more serious light, and running home, he devotes the sack as an article no more to be used. He is occupied in frequent purifications of his house; saying that it has been invaded by Hecate. If in his walks an owl flies past, he is horror-struck, and exclaims—Thus comes the divine Minerva. He is careful not to tread upon a tomb, or to approach a corpse; saying that it is profitable to him to avoid every pollution. On the fourth and seventh days of the month, he directs mulled wine to be prepared for his family; and going himself to purchase myrtles and frankincense, he returns, and spends the day in crowning the statues of Mercury and Venus. As often as he has a dream, he runs to the interpreter, the soothsayer, or the augur, to inquire what god or goddess he ought to propitiate. Before he is initiated in the mysteries, he attends to receive instruction every month, accompanied by his wife, or by the nurse and his children. Whenever he passes a cross-way, he bathes his head. For the benefit of a special purification, he invites the priestesses to his house, who, while he stands reverently in the midst of them, bear about him an onion, or a little dog. If he encounters a lunatic, or a man in a fit, he shudders horrifically, and spits in his bosom.
The four centuries that had intervened between Theophrastus and Plutarch, during which a philosophical atheism had spread widely among the educated classes, had not, it appears, lessened the terrific influence of the Grecian polytheism over melancholy minds. On the contrary, it seems to have been enhanced rather than diminished; for the language of Plutarch is stronger than that of Theophrastus. The verisimilitude of both descriptions, and their accordance, leave no room to doubt that this effect of the religious belief of the Greeks was of frequent or ordinary occurrence among them. Indeed there is reason to think that few persons of serious temper, even though imbued with the spirit of the sceptical philosophy, could free themselves from the burdensome scrupulosities and the horrific fears which attend every form of polytheism, and from which neither the refinement, nor the scepticism, nor the voluptuousness, nor the frivolity, nor the good taste, nor the subtile reasonings of the Greeks, could emancipate the devotees of their religion. The philosophic Julian might be named in illustration of this assertion. Beside his hatred of Christianity, his conduct was evidently influenced on many occasions by a very honest dread of the capricious dæmons whose falling interests he so zealously upheld: witness his magical practices.
It will be seen that passages such as those above quoted, possess a substantial value, when brought to their place among the materials of history. Ethical writers reflect the image of the principles and the manners of their times. In some instances we may infer too much; in others may mistake a partial for a general representation; but if, with due caution, we review a wide field of ethical literature, the general result of such an induction cannot differ much from truth.
If, for example, from the entire series of Greek writers, all passages of a purely ethical kind were to be extracted, and were arranged in chronological order, the collection would afford the means of ascertaining, not only the system of morals and religion that was known to that people, but also the actual state of morals and manners, as it varied from age to age. With such materials before us, there would be less room for conjecture, and less danger of error, in determining the moral condition of the people, than is found in ascertaining the extent of their political power, or the amount of their national wealth. Upon ethical passages, such as those we have adduced above, one fact presents itself—namely, that in the profane authors there is little of direct admonition or reproof, and rarely an appeal to a recognised standard of right. The reason is obvious. The Greek and Roman ethical writers discuss questions of morality in the tone proper to a learned disquisition, each saying the best things in the best manner he could:—no man was authorized to do more than propose his opinion: no feeling of official responsibility, no high solicitude, gave seriousness or force to his manner. Morals were not founded upon religion: on the contrary, an ethical treatise, containing the expression of reason and conscience, was at once a virtual refutation of the national theology, and a sarcasm upon the gods. Especially it is to be observed, that the instruction and reformation of the mass of mankind entered not into the contemplation of moralists and philosophers, who, while they amused one another with eloquent disquisitions, were not troubled by the thought that the millions of their fellow-men remained, from age to age, untaught in wisdom and virtue.
Not so was it with the people of Palestine. Not philosophy, but morality, was paramount; and morality was taught in its dependence upon religion. And it was not to a small class in the community, but to the people at large, that ethical writings were addressed:—and it was not for amusement, but for reproof, that they were so addressed:—and these writers, instead of propounding their individual opinions, and supporting those opinions by abstract reasonings, took the short course of appealing to a known standard of right and wrong. They speak to their fellow-men as from on high, and in the tone of authority; and each acquits himself, with gravity, of a weighty responsibility. From the writers of Palestine the modern Western nations have learned the style of instruction, admonition, and reproof, and this can have its origin, and derive its force, and maintain its influence, only from a Divine Revelation, entrusted to the administration of human agents.
But our present object leads us to remark that, whether or not this peculiarity of the Jewish and Christian writings be attributed to their Divine origination, it renders them far more available as historical documents, than are the writings of other ancient nations. For inasmuch as these compositions unite the several qualities of being authoritative, hortative, and popular, they leave nothing to be wished for in ascertaining, either the moral level of the writer’s mind, or the actual level of manners in his times. It is evident that an appeal to a fixed standard, and an admonitory application of its known rules to the existing practices of the people, completes the requisite data of the historical problem above-mentioned. In the standard we have a known quantity; and in the hortatory forms of address, we have a mean of measurement, by which the actual state of morals may be ascertained.
An inquiry of this kind, if pursued in its details, would prove the existence and operation of an ethical system, so pure and perfect, that all after nations to whom it has been made known, have found nothing left to them but to admire and adopt its principles. What can the modern moralist do but work up the materials which he finds ready to his hand in the New Testament? To devise a new theology, or to invent a new morality—which should recommend itself to the common sense of mankind, would be as impracticable as to propose a new set of mathematical axioms. Truth is single and simple; and when once discovered, it must be adopted and followed. As a matter of history, it appears that the writers of ancient Palestine have taken possession of the regions of religion and morality.
But it would be practicable to ascertain, not only the system of morals taught by the Jewish and Christian writers; but the actual state of morals among those whom they immediately addressed. The Hebrew prophets furnish ample means for pursuing such an inquiry; but the unstudied earnestness of the Apostles, and especially the epistolary form of their compositions, would render the task of the inquirer easy, and conclusive in its results. In an argument of this kind we should not be entitled to conclude that the persons addressed were blameless in their lives—because their teachers address them as “Saints”—a conventional term. Our inferences must be of a less ambiguous kind. We must assume nothing but what is necessary to give consistency to the writer’s assertions:—in other words, we are to assume just as much as is found to be safe and reasonable in the interpretation of any ancient author.